


Happy Puddles

by TerresDeBrume



Series: Happy Puddles [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I mean, seriously, I just spent a whole day in airplanes and airports, do you </i>really<i> think I did it all for a prank?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Puddles

In all honestly, he would be completely unable to say when this began for Elsa.

 

Maybe it was when he went to film Thor two and there was that scene where Loki seduces Thor while wearing Jane’s skin, revealing himself only at the end. Or maybe it was when he insisted to invite Tom for India’s first birthday, or when he dragged all his family all the way to London for the new year, or on that time when he and Tom fell asleep on his couch after watching a movie and giggling like schoolboys.

He doesn’t know if what started it for Elsa was that he seized every occasion to spend time with Tom, or the way Chris tends to forget everything and everyone when they are together.

 

He thinks, sometimes, that what started it for him was Tumblr.

Maybe that requires a bit of explanation. You know that thing where you’re being narcissistic and decide to research your own name? Yeah, well, someone with Chris’ visibility should obviously know better than to do that, but sometimes ego kind of takes the wheel, and before you know it you have 1 000+ answers entries for ‘Chris Hemsworth’ displayed on your screen.

And you know, in for a penny, in for a pound, or so Chris’ moms likes to say, so once he’s got the search completed, he goes through a few pages of google image –what? He’s just trying to gauge how many weird faces the internet has managed to capture. It’s a guilty pleasure, okay?- and lands on… well. Not his best face. So he clicks through and gets to a full photoset of his ‘derpface’ and then there is tagging and before Chris knows it, he is neck deep in the Hiddlesworth tag, and it’s kind of mind blowing.

 

Because yes, okay, when he looked at those photosets and stories and gifsets, there was a powerful weird factor. A very powerful one, in fact (no, ladies, Chris doesn’t constantly wonder about the color of Tom’s eyes and seriously, does he _really_ look like the kind of guy who would use the mjölnir prop like _that_?) but there was something interesting, too; namely the number of those things that were taken from what was supposed to be Tom’s point of view.

As if Tom was the one offering the most clues.

Chris remembers looking through the tags and at the photographs, and he remembers his memories being jostled, the souvenir of little touches and voice inflexions coming back to him with the brightness of new information.

 

After that, getting the idea out of his head was impossible. Not that Tom was in love with him –Chris has ego, but not _that_ much, thank you- but the idea of Tom being maybe into guys. He knows, after all, that he has some appeal –maybe not to everyone, but he’s heard enough compliments on his physique to know that he is at least acceptable in most people’s eyes- and he supposes, if one were into guys, there is a possibility that said person would be interested in his appearance, at least.

So yes, Chris admits it, after he saw this tag, he started to wonder. And then he wondered some more during the next two weeks, which were the first two weeks of filming The Avengers two, and maybe he kind of accidentally avoided Tom, or did something different, he isn’t sure.

 

All he knows is, at some point, Tom’s sexuality came into the conversation, and things kind of flew right to hell.

Because as it turned out, Tom was extremely sensitive about it at the time, and Chris jumped to stupid conclusion and he may or may not have half accused Tom of homophobia when he was a bit too quick and vehement to deny his possible attraction to men. (What possessed him to do that, Chris still has no idea, but he did, and he doesn’t think he’ll stop feeling stupid and guilty about it for a long time.)

The end result was that Tom paled like only redheads can pale and didn’t speak to Chris for two weeks, leaving him alone and depressed on set; to the point where he was unable to do anything but talk about their situation when Elsa came to visit them with India.

(Maybe this is when it started for her, too.)

 

They reconciled afterwards, obviously, and the public never learned a thing about his and Tom’s little spat –although they did hear about how well Tom got along with Chris’ girl, because it’s true, and seeing them play together made Chris feel happier than was reasonable- but it stayed on his mind.

And it stayed, and stayed, fascinating and mind-boggling in a way Chris couldn’t comprehend or explain, until Elsa took him aside one day and summed up their situation.

 

“I’m not in love with Tom!” Chris said then, cheeks burning with the kind of embarrassment only lying can bring, and he remembers Elsa’s watery eyes and cracked voice when she said:

“Yes you are! He’s all you can think about lately, all you ever talk about! I love you, Chris, and I don’t want to lose you, but I’m not going to stand there and wait for you to come back, if you ever do.” She clenched her fists then, and looked at the wall, as if saying the words to his face were too hard on her, too unbearable. “You’re in love with him and there’s nothing I can do against that, but I refuse to be your safety net. I married you for love, not comfort. If there’s no love left, there’s no point in maintaining the marriage.”

“I do love you though!” Chris protested, and he remembers the way his chest constricted with fear and pain and guilt all rolled in a huge ball of affection and love he didn’t know what to make of in this moment.

“Yes, but not the way it takes to make a marriage work. You’re a good guy, Chris. At least have the decency to let me go so I can have a chance at finding someone who’s going to love me like I need him to.”

 

Nodding at that statement still ranks among the hardest things Chris has ever done.

 

 

So now here he is, a month later, standing in his living room with India in his arms, peppering his face with kisses while Elsa looks at him with this ‘you are being stupid’ gaze she does so well. He squirms.

 

“What?” He asks, petulant as a child.

“You know what, Chris,” she answers. “Tell him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Wha—you know why!” He exclaims. “I have no idea how he feels about me—”

“Everybody knows how he feels about you, Chris, you—”

“And even _if_ he says yes,” Chris continues, ignoring the input, “I’m not sure I’m ready for this! I mean it’s one thing to have feelings for someone, but to act on it….”

“Then _tell him that too_ ,” Elsa insists, clearly exasperated. “I’m not going to be your conjugal counselor Chris! I love you, but not that much. Now, I have to leave or I’ll be late… I’ll come pick India around eleven tonight, is that alright with you?”

“Yes,” Chris says. “It’s good.”

“Okay. Have fun with her.” She kisses India on the cheek. “Bye baby, mommy loves you!”

 

And then she is gone, and India starts asking for her meal, and Chris doesn’t really have time to think about anything but her. That, and how lucky he is that his divorce went so well, because even though it was painful to live, it’s still a hell of a lot better than it could have been, and at least his daughter didn’t have to suffer from it.

But in the end, not thinking about his situation for most of the day doesn’t really help. Not because he doesn’t have a good time –quite the opposite, in fact, as India is nearly five now, and the most adorable ball of energy Chris has ever seen… barring Tom, maybe. And that’s just where his problem lies.

 

Because when eleven rolls around and Elsa picks their daughter from her bed, leaving Chris alone, he hasn’t taken time to .

 

Later, he will thank Elsa and whatever form of fate that may or may not exist for it. For now, he mostly curses himself as he picks up the bare minimum he’ll need in the next few hours, and heads out of the door.

 

{ooo}

 

It’s six in the morning and Tom barely even slept four hours in the past two days.

First there was work with his latest movie, then there was a voyage to Paris for promotion purpose, and then an interview for the BBC and what have you and now that he finally manages to sleep, there is someone _banging on his stupid door._

He wonders how the internet would react if they discovered he actually considers murder sometimes.

 

He groans and pulls a pillow over his head because morning person or not, it’s not morning until he’s had _at least_ six hours of sleep, and then barely. He’s ready to go back to sleep and leave whoever it is to rot in the rain, when a deep voice calls out his name. Tom pauses and listens, hoping to be right as much as he hopes to be wrong in his identification of said voice, but when he hears the man call him again… there’s no doubt left.

Groaning, Tom forces himself to get out of bed, running a hand through his hair to try and get his churls into some semblance of order –they’re a perpetual mess lately, and he’s so tired he can even bring himself to care about looking like a scarecrow with its head on fire.

 

He stifles a yawn, scratches at the back of his head, and goes to open the door.

 

{ooo}

 

There’s a very tiny, very short lived part of his brain that hopes there’s no paparazzi in the street, because if the internet gets a hold of a picture of them right now, they’re doomed.

Chris has been running and/or standing in the rain for a little over two hours by this point and his body is screaming for lunch –or dinner, or breakfast, thank you time zones- and he feels like he is never going to be dry again, really he does.

And then, in front of him, there’s Tom bloody Hiddleston, flaming hair mussed with sleep as he rubs at his eye, the fabric of his Loki ‘are you mad’ T-shirt riding up his belly to reveal a strip of skin, still barred with the red marks of a jean’s waistband. Chris swallows, hard. More than twenty four hours of travel, and he still doesn’t know how to bring the conversation around.

 

He wonders how he never noticed the tendency his brain has of stuttering to a stop whenever Tom is near him. He wonders how it is that he never noticed how intense Tom’s gaze on his face is, or how different the color of his eyes can be according to the light.

Chris stands here, with the rain beating down on his back for a good minute and a half, until Tom turns an intense shade of red and says:

 

“Look, Chris, it’s not that I don’t like seeing you, because I do but you’ve been staring at me for a minute now, and it’s raining and I’m kind of half naked so I think maybe you should—”

“I love you,” Chris blurts out, because what else can he do?

“No you don’t,” Tom says instantly, and his back is rigid, his neck red, the knuckle of his thumb white where it clenches at the doorframe.

“Tom—”

“No, Chris!” Tom cuts, “Stop. It’s not funny. We talked about this, remember how it went? Please don’t bring it back on the table. I don’t know what made you think this was a good idea, but stop it. Right now.”

 

Later on, Chris will think of this as the most tactless sentence he has ever uttered.

 

“I know you love me, Tom.”

 

The door closes in his face.

 

{ooo}

 

He feels like his ribcage is going to give out and his heart will burst on his chest like a grenade. People always talk about love and all the awesome things it does to you, but they never mention how similar it is to a bloody panic attack. They never tell you it will make your blood pulse in your fingertips, or that you won’t be able to breathe. They never tell you there are times when it’s so painful that you wish you couldn’t feel it. They never tell you there is no skin dampener for love, everything hits you directly in the nerves, and you brain doesn’t get a single say in it.

Tom wishes someone has warned him beforehand because all in all, as good as it may be, love is the scariest shit _ever_.

 

“Tom,” he hears on the other side. “Tom, open the door. Please.”

 

He wants to answer. He wants to. But then, what would he say? _Yes, Chris, I love you. I’ve loved you from the very beginning, I’ve been in love with you for almost as long as I’ve known you. Please, please tell me this isn’t a joke._ Tom can’t do that.

He’s used to hiding what he feels. Why do you think he wanted to be an actor? It’s easier to be other people. When things go pear-shaped, you get to get out and forget about it. Being other people means you can show everything you truly feel and nobody will ever suspect they’re seeing anything but the character… or at least, they’ll never get to be sure.

Being an actor means messing with the trail that leads to your heart and Tom, who knows this, was never really surprised that a lot of people he’s met in the business have self-worth issues.

 

“Tom, I swear I’m not joking. I wouldn’t do that to you. I mean, seriously, I’ve just spent a full day in airplanes and airports, do you _really_ think I did all that just for a prank?”

 

Of course Tom doesn’t. Of course not. Which is exactly why this is so scary.

Fantasizing is easy. It’s safe. All you have to do is use your brain, and try not to drool. (And deal with the possible guilt and/or weirdness of using the image of someone you know to alleviate some of your needs. Tom’s only human, after all.) Fantasizing is all the good parts of love without the risks, and although some people decide, in their bitterness, to call themselves ‘friendzoned’ Tom has always known that fantasy is the easy part of loving. It’s easy to picture a perfect life, a perfect outcome, a perfect relationship.

It’s harder to get it.

 

And now he’s afraid. Stupid, he knows: he’s a grown man, not a fifteen-years-old schoolboy, but still. What if he can’t let go of what he dreamed up? (Read up, too. Oh god, has he ever felt guiltier than he did when he scrolled through pages of himself and Chris in every situation possible? What if Chris _finds out_?)

 

“Tom, seriously. It’s half past six. People are going to wonder what I’m doing getting my ass drenched in London when I’m supposed to be in Sydney for a promotion. At least let me in.”

“And if I do?” Tom asks. “What happens next?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Chris admits. “I pictured this conversation a hundred different ways but somehow I never thought you’d close the door in my face.”

“Sorry about that,” Tom says, burying his face in his hands.

“Then can you please get your face out of your hands and open the door?” Chris asks.

“How did you—”

“I told you,” Chris says. “I’m in love with you. It just took a long time for me to realize it.”

 

{ooo}

 

There’s a click on the other side, and Chris realizes he was holding his breath.

Tom is here—his brain stops. _Tom_ is _here_. And really, there’s nothing more to say after that, is there? Well, obviously, there is. Just… not now.

 

“May I come in?”

 

Tom nods and lets him in, and Chris finds himself leaving puddles all over his floor. The door closes. They stare at each other.

Then Tom bursts into giggles, his mouth stretched into the grin Chris has come to learn and love so much, his tongue half poking out… and at this point, there’s really nothing else he can do than join in, laughing like he hasn’t laughed in a long time –ever since he and Elsa had that conversation about their marriage, actually.

 

“Come on,” Tom says when they’re both breathless and bright eyed. “First, we need to dry you up. Then we’ll get breakfast.”

 

Chris smiles as Tom’s hand slips in his, tugging him toward the bathroom.

He threads their fingers together.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critiques are loved, here and [on Tumblr](http://fanfanwrites.tumblr.com) <3


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